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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23894032">Ribba</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil'>Merixcil</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tumblr Fics [70]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Big Bang (Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2017-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2017-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:28:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,865</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23894032</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Yoongi is an aspiring furniture designer and Seunghyun is an important figure in the Ikea creative team</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Min Yoongi | Suga &amp; Choi Seunghyun | T.O.P</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tumblr Fics [70]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759627</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ribba</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Leiden. The Netherlands. Eight thirty in the morning, if you can believe it. It’s late enough in the year that the sun is well and truly up but not so late that its low lying glare doesn’t burn Yoongi’s eyes. As he crosses the car park, surrounded by hundreds of fresh faced junior employees, he tries to keep his sights set on the building in front of him. A beacon of furniture design, wrapped up in blue and gold. </p><p>He’s carrying his portfolio as neatly as he can, but it’s big enough to take A1 drawings, and more than a few times he narrowly avoids whacking it into the shins of the unsuspecting masses. One time he cuts a little too close, and a very tall, very blonde man gives him an earful in Dutch. </p><p>Yoongi doesn’t speak Dutch. Hell, his English is patchy at best. In theory his school transcripts have always been up to scratch, but that doesn’t account for Min Yoongi’s uncanny talent for the lucky guess. </p><p>Once inside the building, the sunlight issue is no longer a problem. Whether retail, business or design department, the lack of natural light in Ikea is universal. Yoongi would know, he feels like he’s spent the better part of the last two years stalking every location they have through Google Earth. Every large company worth their salt has at least one office block with walls of glass but not these guys. Here, you hide away from the world and you get your shit done. </p><p>The building’s foyer is wide, with high ceilings and a mind bogglingly large number of corridors leading away from its central hub. The hoards of people heading in from the car park all know exactly where they’re going. They divide into groups and lines leading down well trodden paths and up stairs and nothing makes very much sense to Yoongi. There’s signage everywhere, but it’s all in Dutch and English and after ten minutes squinting at a big blue floor plan, he’s no closer to making head or tail of it. There are pull out maps for visitors in half a dozen European languages, Japanese and three different variants of Chinese characters. No Korean though. </p><p>There’s a row of perky young people tucked into an alcove on the other side of the foyer. Again, the signs that adorn their booth advertise services in a myriad of languages, but none that Yoongi has a particularly firm grasp of. </p><p>Which leaves him with two options. He either has to start walking and hope that he eventually finds himself where he needs to be, or he needs to call on his meagre reserves of English and ask for some help. The first option sounds infinitely more appealing, but it’s getting on for nine and this place is anything but small. The chances of getting lost are too high and he’s running low on time. Yoongi runs through vocabulary in his head, takes a deep breath and steps up to the booth. </p><p>“How may I help you this morning, sir?” The girl is beaming half as bright as the sun before Yoongi reaches the counter. Her teeth look unnaturally white next to the bright red of her lipstick, which appears to match perfectly with that of every other girl manning the help desk. Her hair is dark, pulled back into a tight bun and making the blue of her eyes pop. She looks like in another light, a little less well put together, she might be distractingly pretty. </p><p>What’s more, her English accent is flawless, as far as Yoongi can tell. She’s either a native speaker or has been using the language since she was in nappies. His nerves catch up to him very quickly, making language mistakes in front of someone with a functional understanding of English is one thing. Blundering in front of an experienced speaker is a whole other category of embarrassing.</p><p>Yoongi offers her a weak smile in return, runs through what he wants to say one more time before opening his mouth. “I am going to meet with Choi Seunghyun.”</p><p>“Ah!” The girl’s smile miraculously appears to grow even wider, “you must be Mr Choi’s nine o’clock.”</p><p>Yoongi nods, unable to think of anything to say to that. He always forgets how much English he understands when it’s being spoken, it’s the speaking part that gets it for him. </p><p>The girl calls over what looks to be a security guard. Tall, suited, honey blonde hair, a sharp face that melts into a smile when he reaches the desk. The two of them talk for a moment in rapid fire Dutch before the guard spares Yoongi a second glance and motions for him to follow. </p><p>The guy doesn’t say much. Perhaps he doesn’t speak English either. No matter the reason, Yoongi is grateful not to have to think too hard. Just follow, up stairs, through great wide corridors in painted white concrete and into the the complex little alleys that make up the nervous system of the building. </p><p>Eventually, Yoongi is stopped outside a yellow door. Identical to every other door in this area save for the tiny blue plaque reading ‘Seunghyun Choi’. The name looks so bizarre, reversed to fit European naming conventions, that Yoongi starts trying to piece together an English sentence to explain the discrepancy to the guard. </p><p>He doesn’t get very far before the guard reaches over and knocks. From the other side, a deep voice shouts something in Dutch. The guard gets the handle, ushers Yoongi inside, then retreats back into the maze of corridors from whence they had come. </p><p>The rest of the building was well lit, bright and airy, in keeping with every Ikea building Yoongi had even been in in his life. This room, on the other hand, has just one light source. A crane lamp hangs over the desk at the far end of the room, casting the artwork lining the walls in shadow but perfectly illuminating the sketches that the occupier had been working on. Yoongi blinks against the low light, till his surroundings come into focus and he can make sense of the figure sat behind the desk. </p><p>He looks just like he always does in pictures. His suit is impeccably tailored - turquoise with a heavily patterned shirt underneath. His hair is already falling out of whatever style he gelled it into that morning and there’s a slight smile playing around his eyes. “Hello there, Mr Min,” he rumbles, thankfully in Korean. </p><p>“Hello Mr Choi,” Yoongi manages not to trip over his tongue, stepping over to the desk and taking the hand that is offered for him to shake. </p><p>“Please, sit,” Mr Choi says, gesturing to a chair on Yoongi’s side of the desk, “so, you’re interested in joining the Ikea design team?”</p><p>Yoongi falls back into the chair, which isn’t particularly plush but a whole lot comfier than it looks. He props his portfolio up between his knees and looks up to meet Mr Choi’s eyes, “yes sir.”</p><p>“Well then, put your portfolio on the table and let’s see what you’ve got.”</p><p>Mr Choi is meticulous in his examination, the design he was working on before Yoongi arrived apparently forgotten as he rifles through the portfolio. First he lays out the work in chronological order, commenting on progress and how Yoongi’s influences can be seen to overlap and separate throughout his time as a designer. Then he lays them out by style, drawing attention to anything he thinks is particularly emblematic of design flare. </p><p>He doesn’t ask many questions. Only stopping to clarify that he’s making his deductions correctly. Yoongi feels like he’s been struck dumb, only able to nod or shake his head in response. He’s not sure what the time is, but if he had to guess, he’d say they’ve been sat there for an hour or more. </p><p>Only after he’s approached the work from every possible angle does Mr Choi sit back, eyes still raking over Yoongi’s work like he’s sure he hasn’t mined it’s full potential. Normally prospective employers take a nominal glance at a portfolio at best, it’s both terrifying and gratifying to have someone give an honest shit about his work to date. </p><p>“Where are you based?” Mr Choi asks. </p><p>“A small firm back in Seoul.”</p><p>“You’re not from Seoul.”</p><p>“I grew up in Daegu.”</p><p>Mr Choi smiles, the corners of his mouth turning up just a fraction and warming his face completely, “that explains the accent. It’s a long way to come for work though. From Korea to the Netherlands, I mean.”</p><p>Yoongi shrugs, “I want to be a furniture designer. There’s no better place to learn that craft than here.”</p><p>“I’d say you already understand the craft,” Mr Choi gestures to the papers littering his desk, “but understanding how to make beautiful furniture isn’t the same thing as understanding how to make beautiful furniture that everyone can use. I can teach you that, if you’re willing to make the leap.”</p><p>It takes Yoongi a long moment to fully parse that sentence and all it’s implications. “So,” he starts, “you’re offering me a job?”</p><p>Mr Choi doesn’t say anything, but his smile hitches itself a little further up his cheeks. It’s all Yoongi can do not to whoop for joy as he gets to his feet and reaches out to shake hands and seal the deal. </p><p>“Thank you so much! I promise I won’t let you down, I’ll be here every day, working hard, giving it my best. You won’t regret this Mr Choi.” He’s blabbering, he knows. He can’t bring himself to care.</p><p>“You tell me when you’re ready to start. You’ll need to speak English or Dutch to a passable level, but you’d be surprised what you can get away with here.” Mr Choi’s hands are warm and his shake is firm, “is six weeks enough time for you to make the move?”</p><p>“Definitely,” Yoongi grins. And really, someone ought to stitch this smile on because he had no plans to get rid of it any time in the foreseeable future. He’ll be happy to struggle through some late night language classes if it means getting to feel like this day in day out. </p><p>With the relevant papers signed and Mr Choi in possession of Yoongi’s contact details, the time comes for Yoongi to depart. The two of them repack his portfolio and then he makes for the door. </p><p>Before he turns the handle, Yoongi stops. He can’t for the life of him remember how to get back to the foyer, and the guard who brought him to Mr Choi’s office is long gone. Once again, he debates the merits of winging it verses asking for help, but before he can come to his own conclusion Mr Choi appears at his shoulder. </p><p>“Here,” he holds out a map of the building that had once been in English. Only every word has been scribbled out, replaced with handwritten hangeul that Yoongi can only assume Mr Choi wrote in himself. </p><p>“Thanks,” Yoongi says with a quick bow. After that everything is easy, the path ahead clear now he knows where he’s going. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lmao can you believe some people write kpop fic where the idols are still idols? Me neither</p><p>This work was originally posted as part of a multi chaptered 'tumblr prompts' fic that I'm trying to split up. If you think you've read it before, you probably have</p><p>Comments on the previous posting of this fic (just ask if you want me to remove yours) include: </p><p>&gt;pauseforthought: Furniture designer Yoongi is the Yoongi I never knew I needed<br/>&gt;&gt;Merixcil: He's great, isn't he?</p><p>&gt;chihiro: Utterly blessed and so mad because every single thing about this chapter was something I never knew I needed. The fact that your yoongi seems so cute and different from most renditions of him in the fandom feels like a breath of fresh air! The what could have been factor to all of this too made me want to break out laughing by the end. Really made my day, reading this update tbh! ♥ thank you!!<br/>&gt;&gt;Merixcil: Thank you so much! I'm really glad you liked this. I tend to write Yoongi as confident in spaces he's comfortable with and prickly in spaces that he's not, but I think the language barrier is to blame for me writing him a bit more meek here</p><p>&gt;brian_fan_4eva: LMAO at the note left on this chapter. totally agree.<br/>&gt;&gt;Merixcil: It's just...so much easier to write hundreds of nonsense AUs :P</p></blockquote></div></div>
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